The Bookshelf

I grant thou wert not married to my muse,

And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook

The dedicated words which writers use

Of their fair subject, blessing every book.

Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,

Finding thy worth a limit past my praise;

And therefore art enforc'd to seek anew

Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days.

And do so, love; yet when they have devis'd

What strained touches rhetoric can lend,

Thou truly fair wert truly sympathiz'd

In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend;

And their gross painting might be better us'd

Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abus'd.